


Divinity

by temperamental_mistress



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Death, Gen, Inspired by Poetry, Introspection, No Dialogue, Poetry, The Divine Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 14:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17163857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temperamental_mistress/pseuds/temperamental_mistress
Summary: It was right that he should find comfort in poetry, as he always had.





	Divinity

**Author's Note:**

> I am no Dante, no Virgil, no Mandelbaum. But this is the song my heart has been trying to sing about Prouvaire for over a year, and I hope I have done it justice.

All was dark.

In the seconds, minutes, hours following Lamarque’s funeral procession, chaos and confusion reigned as two more monarchs to be dethroned. Barricades rose like stubborn weeds breaking through the cobbled streets. The screams and songs and smoke that filled the air were a poet’s dream, but Jean Prouvaire could not bear witness to what transpired. 

The streets he knew so well had betrayed him. In the low light, he had turned himself in circles and away from his comrades until he was alone. Unthinking, his feet had followed their usual route back through the winding streets and delivered him directly into the arms of the National Guard. He gave no shout of warning, no cries of pain — for who would hear him? — as he was bruised, beaten, and blindfolded. Though he could see nothing but the shadows of his own soul, the world spun as he was hauled to his feet and pulled, stumbling, into the night. 

He knew what awaited him: if not death, then surely prison. He refused to go quietly to either end. Like a spooked horse loosed from its stable, Prouvaire threw his head back into the jaw of a guardsman, and was well pleased with the clamor and commotion that followed his blind dash from captivity. Every moment he fought was a moment these men did not fight his friends. For several endless seconds he ran, the wild thrill of the chase driving him on through the darkness until he was thrown sideways. His head struck stone, and he was dragged back by his captors anew. 

The fiery courage that had spurred him to action a moment prior dimmed to a lonely ember. There would be no rescue, no escape, no way out of this grave he had made for himself. He would not consent to decay in some forgotten prison cell. He would die here, he was sure now, and he would leave no trace of his existence on the world. 

Tossed aside and left to await the pronouncement of his fate, Prouvaire found a poem upon his lips as sweet as any prayer. _When I had journeyed half of our life’s way, I found myself within a shadowed forest, for I had lost the path that does not stray._ [1] He felt his heart grow warm, despite the looming spectre of his demise. He was not a religious man, though he appreciated the beauty such belief inspired. It was right that he should find comfort in poetry, as he always had. 

He had no Virgil to guide him through this Inferno. He would find no shade, no man, no poet in this darkness. He was alone, separated from those he held dear, and none would come to help him. He steeled himself, sitting straighter. _Here one must leave behind all hesitation: here every cowardice must meet its death._ [2]

He would be Dante and Virgil both. He would journey through the circles of this hell, and find paradise of one kind or another when he reached the end. Had he not pledged to fight beside his friends upon the barricade? Had he not already accepted that his life was a price worth paying for progress? 

Prouvaire pulled at his bonds and found them looser than he had originally believed. Carefully, he twisted his wrists to create a better angle. He would slip free from these ties and cause what chaos he could behind enemy lines. He would be as Roland or Socrates, and though none would know of his deeds, the stars would bear witness to his courage, and that would be enough. 

Before he could break free, a guardsman shoved him and moved to tighten his bonds. A shadow of a smile bloomed around the split in Prouvaire’s lip. _Wounded soul, if, earlier, he had only been able to believe what he had only glimpsed within my poetry, then he would not have set his hand against you._ [3] How sad, this man, who could not see the beauty in the world, who could not conceive of the future. Yet Jean Prouvaire could find no voice to speak such poetry to his captors. His voice was stilled by the anticipation of another strike from the hand hidden by darkness. He longed for the soft light of the stars to break through the shadows and relieve him of his fear. For what man, bound and alone, did not fear the dark? 

He waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

Time stretched eternal, and the roar of his heartbeat drowned out the voices around and above and behind him. He didn’t need to hear them to know what they discussed. 

What had led him here, he wondered, to this time, this place? Not the poetry that filled his soul with light and warmth. Not the long days lounging in lavender fields in his youth. Not the laughter, and wit, and charm of his dearest friends. Or, perhaps, it was all of these and more. _Love is the seed in you of every virtue, and of all acts deserving punishment._ [4] He knew the truth of the greater poet’s words. Had not his love of life, of beauty, of his friends, his family, his country driven him to rise up in their defense? If asked, he would not hesitate to offer his life to save Bahorel, or Joly, or Courfeyrac, or any other among the brilliant souls who so often filled his heart and the back room of a café. Yet here, alone, he doubted his cause, his courage. But had not Dante feared also? He struggled to recall the course of the poem, his prayer crumbling like that of a man who had abandoned the church as a child. 

The words returned to him like lightning behind his eyes as rough hands drew him to his feet. _I turned around and to my left — just as a little child, afraid or in distress, will hurry to its mother — anxiously, to say to Virgil: “I am left with less than one drop of my blood that does not tremble.”_ [5] Yes, Dante had feared, and Virgil had urged him onward. It grew harder with every step to find his inner Virgil. He could accept his fate, but even Christ had despaired before the end. 

Tears spilled down Prouvaire’s cheeks unbidden as he thought once more of his friends, who waited in vain for his return. They would fight, as he had, knowing their fate only when it met them face-to-face. He would not see the future they had hoped for. He would not see the fields of his childhood. He would not see the beauty of the world again. For love of them all he would be martyred in this darkness, a Jean d’Arc displaced from his proper time. _Great fire can follow a small spark: there may be better voices after me to pray to Pyrrha’s god for aid, that he may answer._ [6] He would be the spark for his friends’ greater flame and commend his memory to their care. 

The guardsmen stood him against a wall, and told him what was to come, though the smell of black powder in the air was all he warning he needed. He listened to the retreating footsteps, the whisper of shifting fabric, the click of hammers pulled back. 

Prouvaire raised his head, and confessed his remaining sins to whatever judge held court in this limbo. He felt no shame, no fear as he proclaimed his love of his country, of freedom, of a time he would never see. 

A crack of thunder split the air, and he felt the warmth of heaven fill his breast. 

His heart stilled.

His breath ceased.

And as the sun-bright splendor of paradise revealed itself to his unburdened soul, Jean Prouvaire became one with the stars. 

**Author's Note:**

> All quotes from Allen Mandelbaum’s translation of The Divine Comedy
> 
> [1] Inferno, Canto I, 1-3  
> [2] Inferno, Canto III, 14-15  
> [3] Inferno, Canto XIII, 46-49  
> [4] Purgatorio, Canto XVII, 104-105  
> [5] Purgatorio, Canto XXX, 43-47  
> [6] Paradiso, Canto I, 34-36


End file.
